Performance in the Dark
by obaona
Summary: Once every year, she comes to him. Vader&Ami vignette


Title: Performance in the Dark

Summary: Once a night, every year, she comes to him.

A/N: Read this carefully and think about it, because I mostly hint at the plot, and I don't really _say_ why the whole thing is rather ironic. There are no coincidences, remember. ;)

Feedback is, as always and forever, treasured. :)

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There are days when darkness seems to come out to play. Days when it seems as if every little dark thing runs out into the light, finding safety in numbers, and tries to overwhelm the light. 

For Darth Vader, that day was of Padmé Amidala's death. Of course, the darkness which came to taunt him and to play is not any kind of darkness; not the kind of darkness he holds and cherishes. It gives him no power. It hurts him. It prods those parts of Vader's mind that can still feel pain; it brings him to anger – but it's always such a helpless anger, and he is always left feeling alone at the end of it all.

It weakens him.

As since the beginning, it comes with a faint whisper, a faint call of his given name, the one he did not take and no longer acknowledges – Anakin. Anakin, that weak part of him that still feels such agony; Anakin, the part that still cares. Anakin, whom he must kill if the taunting darkness will ever be banished, and become useless, unable to hurt him. Sometimes the call is quiet, loving, and at other times it is harsh and demanding. But it always happens.

It is always Anakin that is attacked. With the wisdom of experience, Vader knows this. It has happened too many times for him to be able to forget, too many times for him not to see the truth of his weakness. Anakin weakens him when the darkness comes out to play, because Anakin cares, and Anakin won't go away. Because Anakin is part of him.

Vader's place of residence is both beautiful and stark. It is black and full of harsh lines, reminding him always of what he is, and what he is striving to be. Only when he is full of Darkness can the other taunting darkness no longer hurt, and only then can he achieve his true potential. Only then can he break the chains of slavery Palpatine has on him.

"Anakin. _Anakin_ . . ." Her voice is so sweet, singing faintly that name. So perfect. But there is an edge to it, a mocking presennce within her smooth voice, as well.

"That is not my name," Vader replies harshly. He walks, even knowing that she will follow and that running is pointless. He moves towards his other chambers, the only ones he can take off his suit in. It is a refuge, but it does not protect him from her.

"You were once known by it," she says lightly, her voice echoing as if coming from every corner at the same time. Like she is everywhere. There is a whispering sound, the noise of the softest cloth being drawn along the ground. Vader turns, but there is nothing to see. She is not truly present yet. 

"No longer. That boy is dead."

"I come to speak to him," she says. Her form is growing more real with each passing moment. First, there are only the lines of her body – the sharpness of a cheekbone, the uplift of an eyebrow, graceful as a raven's wing. A dark outline of her eyes, as if the light is imperceptible and only shadow remains. 

Vader's mask is expressionless, perhaps even a haven for such as him – but she sees beyond it.

"He is still here," she says, and she smiles, the curve of her lips appearing. 

Vader turns away with a growl, the noise coming out harshly and roughly. He walks out of the room, he moves so quickly he is nearly running, and goes to his chambers. They are the purest white, the sterility easily seen. Only here can he breathe without his mask – here he is not burdened with its weight. He hears a faint, soft sigh of sadness.

She walks by him as he settles into the chair, and closes the round hyperbolic chamber. She is wearing the dress she was in when she died, a beautiful thing of silken white. Every shadow of every fold more powerful than the pure white, which is ghostly in the light. Her beautiful hair falls down past her shoulders to her waist in flawless curls. Her lips are dark and forced into a mocking grin. She is in contrast with herself, dark lips and light skin, dark eyes and white dress.

A single finger, more flawless in death than in life, traces his shoulder weightlessly. He breathes hard, struggling to ignore it. 

"Have you been a good boy, Anakin?" she whispers into his ear.

"Anakin is dead," Vader snarls in reply.

Her face twists into a sad expression that is somehow cruel and unholy. "But I miss him." She shrugs slightly. "I loved him."

Vader is in torment, and he thinks to himself, _Why must she come here and taunt me? Why must she come here every year and say she loves what I was? She was never so cruel . . ._

"There is nothing to love," Vader snaps.

_Why is she so different?_ Anakin thinks. He hears weeping, so very quiet, and then Padmé frowns for a moment.

Then she smiles. It seems free from the mocking edge, for once. "But there is, Anakin," she says, more loudly, more emphatically.

Vader does not reply. 

She walks around him, her fingers trailing over the walls, over his helmet, trailing other objects along her path. And she speaks, as Vader remains silent. "We wanted to have children. We never did, though. That always made me said, that I miscarried. I wonder what they would have been, a boy and a girl? I often think two girls. Two daughters."

Vader says nothing, again, but his breathing is harsher, heavier. He hears a mournful sound from . . . elsewhere, and it sounds like Padmé, but she's here, in front of him. 

"They would have beautiful. With your eyes, I think. I've always loved your eyes, Anakin. Such a perfect blue."

Silence. 

"But I miscarried. You didn't listen, Anakin. Do you remember not listening? I lost our children. Do you remember?"

Anakin is in agony remembering his children – that should have been – and he speaks. "I remember." 

She nods, slowly. "Good. You must never forget me, Anakin. Nor our children. I see how you try, how Vader tries to kill you. But he never will, my love." She pauses, and turns to face him. Her face is sweet, a pink flush in her cheeks. After each of these encounters, she seems more full of life. As if each visit gives her more power. 

It is a twisting torment, to want both things – for her to be gone, and for her to return. His agony each time strengthens her, keeps her coming back. As if the darkness that does not help him feeds off his pain. He does not know why this is so, but it is. He loves her still, both parts of him do – and so each time he sees her he must pay the price. And each time, as she leaves again, he curses himself for paying it again. For as long as he continues to love her, the weakness stays and the chains of slavery Palpatine weighs him down with remain. 

"Do you remember how you loved me, Anakin?" she whispers, leaning in close, staring into the black pits of his eyes. There is a distant sob, unheard.

"Yes," he says, broken and unable to stop responding. He can't help but love her, even as dark and twisted as she has grown in death. There is another soft sigh, and he almost feels the touch of a hand on his face, even beyond his mask.

She smiles, beatifically. "Good." She kisses him helmet, softly, and he can feel nothing; then she is fading away. 

And soon, she is gone. Again.

Vader sits alone, emotions roiling through him. Anakin is broken and in pain. And both halves of him hurt for it, once again. 

The weakness remains. It will happen again. Vader is not entirely certain she will return, he never is each time, but it will.

And some distance away, an old man smiles, because once again his apprentice is leashed with the weakness of his own love. He has succeeded, yet again, as he will continue to succeed. Amidala is dead, and it is foolishness on Vader's part to believe Palpatine's apparition of her is real. He finds it ironic, indeed, that someone that so hated slavery has come to go back to it again and again. Slavery to _him. That knowledge grants him delicious satisfaction, and he smiles once again._

But even farther away, there is only weeping. In death she is still herself, though weakening from long struggle, but as long as her Anakin remains so tormented – or remains at all – she cannot bring herself to leave. She cannot show herself to him, because she is not strong enough. She tries, every time, feeling that when the caricature appears that when he looks for her, her presence is stronger . . . And yet. He does not know she is there, and looks upon her guise as if it is her, when it is merely her face and another's intent.

But she remains, because as long as she loves him, she is chained just as securely as he – and by her own free will, she cannot leave. She will try again, next time.

The darkness retreats, to wait again for it's day of play.

[fin]


End file.
